The Six Phantoms
by LittlePippin76
Summary: I've changed the rating, it got quite dark in terms of the theme. There's nothing graphic, but I'm not comfortable with it being rated lower. Still a mystery, non-slash.
1. The Row

The Six Phantoms. Chapter One; The Row.

This was all because of yesterday. No, John thought again. It had all started three days before that. It had started with a stupid throw away comment and had ended up here, with him working in St. Bartholomew's Teaching Hospital's A&E department, on Halloween.

He had resigned from his full time job at the end of September shortly after Sherlock had returned, and signed up to an agency. He'd had a moment of hesitation when he'd turned in his notice; this was an uncertain economic time and he felt oddly guilty throwing away a safe and secure position. Especially when he knew deep inside it was just so he could chase Sherlock around on his altogether more interesting cases.

The guilt had dissipated quite swiftly as he revelled in the luxury of calling in with his availability and telling the agency that under no circumstances would he work on Halloween. It was silly really. This was only the first night of the busy period that would go through Guy Faulkes night, on through Christmas Parties, culminating in the night of Hell itself; New Year's Eve. He knew he couldn't get away with not working any of it but he was going to do his best to pretend that Halloween wasn't happening at any rate. He'd briefly voiced to Sherlock his opinions on the stupidity of people clogging up emergency services at such times. He'd snorted in response. "At least you don't get bored." He'd said.

Ah yes, the boredom. That was really where this had started. Sherlock bored. Sherlock bored was a problem.

John had taken it upon himself to try to find ingenious ways of occupying Sherlock's mind in the hope that he might stop 'experimenting'. He'd increased their paper order to fourteen publications and included a couple of more imaginative titles in that number. That had taken care of an hour a day. He'd managed to persuade him to come on a walk around Regent's park and offered him the opportunity to show off his powers by identifying the occupations of each person they met. Unfortunately most were foreign students so Sherlock had returned sulky and voicing the opinion that nobody anywhere ever did anything of any importance. Except himself of course. Another failure was the suggestion that Sherlock sourced and prepared every meal they ate for a week. They'd had nothing but beans on toast for the first two days and nothing but beans the day after. John abandoned that one early.

The biggest success had been when John signed him on to an Internet talkboard. He'd been mesmerised, mostly with the open stupidity of most people in the world. "Don't they care?" he'd yelled. "Anyone in the world can read this and yet they spout such inane nonsense!" He stayed at the computer the whole of the day and was still there the next morning when John came downstairs. He had now added his iPhone and John's computer to his own computer. He'd signed himself on to four more boards overnight.

"Mumsnet?" John asked looking over his shoulder. "Isn't that just, y'know, Mums?"

"No; Dads too. And grandparents and child-care workers."

"You're none of those things."

"Good observation, John! For the purposes of blending in, I have a three year old son and I'm currently seven months pregnant." He looked up and grinned at John. "I'm expecting a girl!"

"You're lying?"

"Stop the presses; someone's lying on the internet! Did you really think I'm the only one doing this? There are three other blatant liars who've posted just this morning."

By the following day he'd been banned from all of them. Among his transgressions had been posting someone's real name and address just to prove that he could, another had been to copy each and every post correcting all spelling and grammar. The other three were ambiguous, but the e-mails all suggested he 'get help'.

John had resorted to daytime TV for a whole. It was during an episode of Jeremy Kyle that the row had begun. The episode was benign enough, but when John attempted to adjust the volume he discovered that Sherlock had engineered the remote to act as a tazer. John yelped and flung it across the room.

"That's effective then." Sherlock said, unmoved.

"Christ!" Muttered John, while rubbing his burnt hand. "Maybe I should put you on Ritalin."

"What?" Sherlock snapped, staring intently at him.

"Ritalin. It's a drug that helps with Attention Deficit Disorder."

"I know what it is! It's evil and, for the most part, abused."

John stared at him. "No it's not. Prescribed correctly it's extremely effective at managing the disorder."

"It's dished out randomly to anyone who wants to stop their child being a child whenever a doctor wants to get them out of their office." Sherlock snarled. "It's drug-fuelled mind control. It's abhorrent."

"Since when have you been against drug-fuelled mind control?" John asked him, astounded that Sherlock even had an opinion on this, let alone one so strong. Sherlock was silent.

"Sherlock?" John asked him patiently. "Did someone prescribe you Ritalin at some point?"

"No. It's not personal; I just think that children should be left to be children."

"Yes, so do I, but ADD exists and in a lot of cases Ritalin and drugs like it helps children to be children. It also helps some adults to be adults."

Sherlock said nothing more on the subject. In fact he said nothing more for three whole days. John had tried to start conversations quite used to this level of silence but Sherlock had taken to flouncing out of the door whenever he came in. This wore a little thin and getting bored himself John had called Bart's and begged for work. "But not tomorrow." He'd told them again. "I don't want to work Halloween."

He'd returned to the flat yawning with a bag full of take out. There was enough for two as a peace offering. Sherlock did indeed talk to him.

"Poison any children today, _Doctor_?"

John took the food up to his room and picked at it listlessly.

The following morning he called Bart's again and took another shift.


	2. Halloween

The Six Phantoms. Chapter Two; Halloween.

So here was John, working Halloween. There weren't many particularly difficult cases; it was just the sheer number that caused problems. There were a fair number of shocked pensioners, several of whom John suspected were just there for the comfort of having people close by. He didn't begrudge them even though they did seem to get underfoot. There were also a high number of accidents caused by children being over-excited and foolish. As the afternoon began to turn into evening there was a run of drunk kids only one of whom, with acute alcohol poisoning, caused actual concern. John had just finished dealing with her and making the call to her spectacularly uninterested parents when he spotted the girl.

She was sat in the waiting area not looking or talking to anyone. She looked young to be alone; just eight or nine. Most of the children coming to Bart's went straight through to the specialist Paediatric A&E. He wondered if she was there with a parent who was being treated but it would have been odd for the staff to leave her unattended. He flagged down a passing nurse.

"Donna, do you know who that kid is?"

"What kid?" Donna asked, but she was gone before he could answer her. Everyone was busy so he wandered over to her.

"Hi." He said, sitting down on a coffee table in front of her.

Her eyes flickered over to his face for a moment but were gone in an instant.

"I'm John, I'm a doctor. Is there someone here with you?"

She was silent. John studied her a moment.

"You've been sick, haven't you?"

She nodded.

"Why were you sick? Have you fallen down somewhere?"

She shrugged. "Dunno."

He pulled a torch out of his pocket and shone it quickly into her eyes. Her pupils responded quickly enough and there was no sign of concussion. He quickly ran his hands over her head and though she flinched initially she sat still enough while he examined her. He sat back again.

"Can you tell me your name?"

"Joanna."

"Do your parents know you're here, Joanna?"

"No." She spoke softly. "I don't want them to know."

"OK." He thought for a moment. "Why did you come to the hospital?"

"I woke up, then I was sick, then I came here." It seemed as much of an explanation as she could give.

"Were you at home when you woke up?"

"No, I was outside the school. I don't want to go home."

Her voice broke then and she looked up at him. She looked exhausted and confused and about ready to cry though she was trying hard not to.

Then suddenly the ward burst into noise and action and excitement. A couple of paramedics ran in pushing a gurney. From where he was sitting John could already see it was bad. The man being brought in had been intubated already; he was alive but the look on the paramedics' faces told him it was touch and go. There was blood dripping onto the floor and a uniformed police officer was trying not to stand in it while following closely. Donna ran ahead holding a treatment room door open.

"John? John, we need you!"

He was already on his way but he turned back to Joanna.

"Will you wait here for me?"

She nodded and he was gone.

Most of John's brain was working automatically. The man was in a very bad way. There were three ugly knife wounds. One was in his chest between his fifth and sixth ribs. The blood issuing from it was pink and frothy; his lung had been pierced. The next was lower on his torso. It had just missed his stomach but it was long and jagged. John knew there would be extensive damage to his bowel. The final one was between his legs, a slash to his femoral artery. The dressings applied by the paramedics were already soaked through.

The paramedics were calling facts and figures over to him. He absorbed them without responding.

He time checked. It was just after seven. The very small amount of his brain that wasn't needed for this thought "bit early for a knife attack."

He was then focussed completely and unshakably on the job in hand. Saline. Universal blood. Oxygen. Adrenalin. When the heart stopped him massaged it until it started again.

Forty-five minutes later and the patient was almost stable enough for surgery. A moment later and he crashed again. John worked furiously for five minutes trying to get him back, even though after the three minutes he knew it was useless. He called time of death at 7:52. He leant against the wall, momentarily shattered.

He looked up and across the room he saw the P.C. who'd come in with the patient. He was wide eyed and had turned an interesting shade of grey and looked like he wouldn't still be standing at all if it wasn't for the wall propping him up.

John looked at him thinking "since when did they allow twelve-year-olds to join the police force?" He next thought was "Christ, I must be getting old."

"You all right, mate?" he asked aloud.

"Yeah. Um, I think I've got to... Um. Yeah." He swallowed.

"You should sit down and have a cup of tea before you go back out. Come on, you can use our staff room. I've got to clean up anyway."

The young policeman followed him like a lamb.

oOo

Ten minutes later and John was clean and dressed again. He introduced himself to the policeman who turn gave his name as Victor Cooke. Victor was already looking a better colour.

"Thanks for the tea." He said. "I don't know what happened; I don't usually come over like that..."

It was bravado and John saw through it instantly.

"It's OK. It takes everyone a while to get used to it." He responded kindly. "To be honest I'd quite like to go home and drown in a bath-worth of beer myself after that."

"Yeah, but we can't stop can we?" He half grinned, looking scared of what else he might see tonight.

"No." John said. He suddenly remembered Joanna. "Shit. Sorry. Actually, Victor, could you do me a bit of a favour? I have another patient outside; a kid that I might need your help with."

Victor agreed eagerly. "I bet you've got a lot of rowdy ones in tonight."

"We do, but this one seems a bit different."

"How's that?"

"I don't know yet, but if she's still there I think she's going to need some help."

Joanna was still there looking slightly more tired but otherwise more alert and less confused. John introduced her to Victor and was pleased that she didn't immediately worry that he'd got the police involved. She was happy to walk along beside them both to the Paediatrics area.

"What happened to that guy?" She asked John.

"Which one? The one that you saw come in?"

"Yeah; will he be OK?"

John thought for a moment.

"No." He answered opting for truth. "No, I'm afraid he died."

"Oh." She was quiet, but didn't seem distressed; more thoughtful. "I'm sorry." She looked down at something she was carrying. "This fell off the trolley as he went through and I picked it up. I don't know if his family will want it or something."

She handed John a white, half-face mask. A Phantom of the Opera mask. He took it from her.

"Thanks." He told her. "I'll put it with his belongings. Thank you."

He handed her over to the Paediatric admissions team explaining that she'd been unconscious and vomiting with no known cause and needed someone to keep an eye on her.

"She'll let you know when she's ready for her parents to come in, won't you Joanna?" She looked alarmed but nodded. "Victor says he can stay a while too if he's needed."

John walked away feeling more tired than he had done for a long time. He reunited the mask to its owner and finished his shift.

oOo

Later, much later, he stomped wearily up the stairs to his flat thinking he'd like nothing more than a beer, a bath and then bed. He made the mistake of going into the lounge first.

Sherlock was there curled up on the sofa with his back to the room. Every fibre of his being screamed "Look! Look at me ignoring you!"

John snapped.

"Oh for God's sake!" he yelled at the silent man. "Just don't even start on me tonight! You can lie there with your stupid attitude and opinion as if you should never, ever be questioned but I've had enough! So your brain and your work are all important to you and no-body could possibly understand that. Well you know what, Sherlock? You're not the only one with integrity to your work and with priorities to think about, and mine; what matters to me, what's important to _me,_ is the medicine. I know it; I'm good at it! So you just lie there with your self-righteous opinions! You know what? You're wrong. You're wrong on this and I don't care if that upsets you. You're wrong, so you can just sod off with this... This!"

He turned, breathless and exhausted and stamped upstairs to his room. He understood that he hadn't made a massive amount of sense, and that Sherlock was probably unpicking his logic right now, but he was tired and he didn't care.

It took him ages to get to sleep. "I don't want to go home" rang through his head for hours.

oOo

Downstairs in the lounge, Sherlock turned over onto his back and stared at the ceiling, thinking.


	3. The Apology

The Six Phantoms. Chapter Three; The Apology.

John woke late the next morning and when he did, he revelled in the peace and comfort of his bed for a while. Memories of the previous night's rant flickered through his mind and he felt vaguely embarrassed. However, he still felt his main points, however poorly expressed, were right. He also knew he couldn't hide from his flatmate indefinitely so he got up and went downstairs.

He was somewhat surprised to find said flatmate awake, alert and fully dressed and working at his computer.

Sherlock glanced up at him.

"Morning."

"Morning." John answered, totally thrown by this new development.

"The kettle's just boiled if you want tea."

John stared. "Thanks." He plodded through to the kitchen. The kettle was empty.

"While you're up, could you make me a cup?" Sherlock called through.

John rolled his eyes. He made the tea though.

"What do you make of this?" Sherlock asked him when he came back in. He nudged a newspaper towards him.

The headline read: "Phantom Killed on Halloween." John frowned, picked it up and read it quickly.

"It's not the most imaginative of headlines I'm afraid." Sherlock said.

"The article's not right either."

Sherlock looked up at him sharply. "What do you mean?"

"Well, it says here he was stabbed at 8:30, but he came in at seven and was dead by eight. It also says he was treated at U.C.H. but I was definitely at Bart's last night." John put the paper down. Sherlock was still staring at him.

"What?"

"What?"

"Why are you staring at me?"

"Oh, several reasons..." Sherlock looked at John and hesitated "None of which are important right now. But supposing I suggested to you that none of the facts in the paper are wrong; what would that suggest to you?"

"Sherlock; I'm not sure I'm entirely in the mood for your games just now?"

Sherlock looked momentarily chastened. He sat quietly for a moment, thinking. Finally he spoke.

"John, my 'games' as you put it; that what I do. The people who stick around me only do so because of the games. Mycroft does because they amuse him, Lestrade because he needs them and you do because, well, I thought because you like the games." He looked at John who was staring at him. "I suppose I could attempt an apology..."

"An apology?" John was now quite astounded.

"...but the games are more fun. Aren't they?"

"Sherlock, you don't need to apologise!"

"I know I don't. But should I want to, I could or I could equally ask you a fairly basic question to remind you that you like the games. Hopefully. Anyway, that's what I did; I didn't think I'd be getting all of this!" he gestured at John.

"Wait! Wait a minute, Sherlock, just wait!" John sighed, thinking that so many things would be so much easier if he could just finish his cup of tea. Or if had a slightly saner housemate.

He thought about explaining; how it is OK for two adults to disagree, but less OK for them to sulk for three days because they disagree. How criticism could be constructive but unkindness couldn't. How an apology is generally better understood to be a statement of contrition than a random question about a newspaper article is. But then he wondered what the point would be. Sherlock either wouldn't understand or, and a small part of John thought this was more likely, he would understand but he wouldn't care.

His eyes dropped to the newspaper headline again. If it wasn't wrong, and he had to admit there were quite substantial errors if it was wrong, then it was a fairly big coincidence. Another man stabbed on the same day, wearing the same outfit as the person he'd seen. Was it a case of mistaken identity? Bit weird though; the costume wasn't that obscuring. So a huge coincidence. Or not a coincidence at all. He looked at Sherlock who was looking at him expectantly.

"A serial killer." He said aloud.

Sherlock was delighted. He leapt up and clapped his hands.

"Brilliant, John! A serial killer! Well, in this case it looks more like a spree killer..."

"An important distinction." John put in, dryly, settling down with his tea.

"Well, it might still turn serial if more victims appear, but it seems unlikely with the whole Phantom connection. It's not something that's a regular feature of many wardrobes."

"Not outside of Her Majesty's Theatre anyway."

"Noted; perhaps we should suggest greater security in that... wait; you have a very exact knowledge of London shows."

John blushed. "I have an interest, that's all." He muttered.

Sherlock let this go. "Pass me my phone." He demanded. "We shall have to tell Lestrade."

John threw the phone over. "Won't he have noticed?"

"I shouldn't think so. I didn't know about the fourth victim until you told me and only found two and three by accident." His phone beeped and glancing at it his face fell. "Damn. We missed our moment." He tossed the phone back to John.

'Please come in re Phantom murders. Lestrade' read the text.

"Well, he still wants your input." John pointed out.

"It's not the same if I can't dazzle him at the outset."

"'Show off', you mean."

"Yes. Are you coming?" Sherlock stopped suddenly. "Though, obviously if you have a shift today I can manage without you if you you'd prefer to do that."

John looked closely at him but couldn't detect any sarcasm.

"No, I definitely need a break from that after last night."

Sherlock gave him a half smile. "Good. It makes a considerably difference to me having someone with me I can completely rely on."

John blinked. "OK then..." was his only response.

"Oh, and you were right about the other thing too."

"What other thing?"

"It was personal. I hate Ritalin for personal reasons. Emotions can be so frustrating at times."

"Yes. I don't know why we bother with them at all, to be honest." John responded, evenly.

"I knew you'd understand. I'll get a cab, you get dressed. Oh and bring an apple or something; I don't want you whining about breakfast all morning."

He dashed off down the stairs.


	4. The Six Phantoms

_I've republished this one to remove some errors. Many thanks to Saturn-Jupiter who pointed the worst of them out; if there are any left it's entirely down to my inability to see them and not hers/his. Thanks also for the rest of the reviews!_

The Six Phantoms. Chapter four; The Six Phantoms.

Lestrade was in his office, leaning over the large table, which on which were 6 manilla folders. On each of these was a post-it notes with a handwritten note of a time, a hospital and a name. One of the names was simply '?'.

Sherlock strode in and gazed down at the folders quickly.

"So, there were at least 3, wait, no 4 killers then."

"Four?" Lestrade asked. "I assumed two."

Sherlock looked at him. "You've organised these by way of the time of what? The stabbing or the admission to hospital?"

"The latter."

"Well if you reorder them geographically you might get a clearer picture." He quickly moved the folders round. John could see that they were now placed loosely based on a map of London. "All of the wounds were identical?"

"Yes, pretty much."

"Yes or no."

"Yes. There were some other minor cuts and bruises but the three fatal knife wounds were in exactly the same places. Early indications are that it was either the same weapon, or one of the same specification."

"It couldn't have possibly been the same weapon. How could it be in the region of King's College Hospital at 7:21 and over in Hammersmith at 7:27? So there's your first two. John; lung, bowel, femoral artery were all injured. Untreated, how long would it take for a man to die from those wounds?"

"Er, Femoral artery alone you'd bleed out in 15 minutes."

"That figures." Lestrade put in. "Four of them were dead before an ambulance even showed up. One died on route; only one of them made it to hospital." He looked at John who just nodded at him. Turning back to Sherlock he continued; "You didn't explain your third. Or your fourth."

"Same logic." He said shortly. "Follow the route. The first victim was outside of Smithfield market and taken to Bart's. He pointed at the folder on the far right of the table. "The next one was in Kings down here; it's possible it was the same person, but unlikely when you take into account the travel time and the fact he'd have to find a second victim in the right attire. Then we know there's something happening simultaneously in Hammersmith." He pointed at the folder on the far left. "Then back up to Euston with U.C.H.; the only one who could have made the trip in that time is the Hammersmith killer. So we could assume him, but the next one was out in at St Mary's and that's West too. It's not likely that Hammersmith would have travelled up to Euston then back out West. So that makes at least three, probably four. At that point it's possible that any one of them got back to the centre of London to the Charing Cross murder. I have to say I'm not happy about it though."

"Well, it's not exactly a source of much joy." Lestrade responded.

"No, the crime's fine; I'm not happy with the theory. I don't believe there were three or four people who each stabbed up to two people." He glanced up at Lestrade. "Are you sure there are only six?"

"Sally's gone over the database twice, we've got calls in to all areas. We're pretty sure we've got them all."

Sherlock nodded. He opened one of the folders and looked at a photograph. "Well, Hammersmith was left handed." He picked up the folder next to it. "And St Mary's wasn't. So that's at least four, probably five. The most likely scenario is in fact six killers. All similarly armed with instruction to kill in a very precise way."

"Lovely." Lestrade opined.

"That is, of course, assuming that all of the killers in question found a suitable victim. Some of them may have finished the night disappointed."

"But why? I might just get my head around a Phantom-hating-fetish-killer, but why would anyone specify the costume and means of death for six other people to attack? It almost sounds like a prank or a hoax. Is someone just having a sick game?"

"Other than the costume, are there any other connections between these six victims?" Sherlock asked him.

"We're at the early stages. We haven't got a full identification on this guy." He pointed at the '?' folder from Euston. "From those we have, there don't seem to be any connection that we've found as yet. They weren't even all at parties; this one was dressing up because his office were. This one" he pointed at Bart's "was on his way to a party but hadn't arrived. Three were at parties but no-one noticed them disappearing, and this one "King's" was outside his own house."

They stared at the folders for a while. Sherlock picked up 'Bart's', which seemed substantially fatter than the others. This was partly because of full details of the hospital treatment given in John's neat handwriting. There were other notes too. Sherlock started reading with a frown, but stopped quite quickly.

"He was police?" He demanded of Lestrade. "Why didn't you say that at the start?"

"Yes, he was." Lestrade told him. "He was CID. Daniel Marcos. I knew him; he was a good guy."

"He was active at the moment?"

"Yes. CID are just getting clearance to forward me full details."

"That's your answer then." Sherlock said standing up.

"What is?"

"God you're stupid."

"Yes, I'm stupid!" Lestrade snarled in an unusual fit of temper. "And I've just found out that one of my friends and colleagues has been brutally killed on the streets I'm supposed to be keeping safe, so if you have anything to tell me, I suggest you do so now!"

Sherlock looked at him. "Marcos was the first victim. He was working on something and we need to know what. I don't think this was random; I think he was the target. Following the attack on him, his killer called his employer with a description of costume and attack. The employer then put a call out for similar attacks to happen throughout London. They've tried to bury the target among a spree of six murders. Why focus on one of the victims individually when there are several all the same? They're trying to hide him."

Lestrade looked at him and nodded.

"I'd like to know about the case Marcos was working on." Sherlock continued. "If you can get that, you can start finding answers. I'll help you."

"Thank you."

oOo

On the way out, John spotted a familiar face.

"Victor!"

Victor looked up and smiled in recognition.

"Doctor Watson! Are you here to follow up on Joanna Russell?"

"No, I'm here on something else entirely. This is a friend of mine; Sherlock Holmes."

Victor looked shocked briefly; he had clearly heard stories from somewhere. He covered it though and shook his hand.

"How is Joanna; do you know?"

"Yes but it's not good; they found signs of sexual trauma."

John grimaced and closed his eyes. "Did she say who?

"No. She said she didn't remember and nothing like that had ever happened to her. The hospital say it did and it was recent. Social services are involved now, but she swears blind it's not her parents. She wanted them with her quite quickly. The thing is, from how she was I believed her. She was really confused about it and scared. She really doesn't think anything happened to her."

"Maybe she wasn't lying."

"But the nurses were sure. Surely you can't forget something like that?"

John shrugged. "You'd be amazed what someone, particularly a child, can suppress if they don't want to think about it. Besides which, there's rohypnol."

"The date rape drug? Wouldn't that show in her blood tests?"

"No, nor in her urine after 24 hours and they don't test urine as standard. They might have done in this case but I wouldn't guarantee it." He was thoughtful for a moment. "Poor girl."

"Yeah." Victor agreed.

"Well, thanks for updating me."

"No worries. It was good to meet you, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock nodded at him briefly and headed off towards the door.

oOo

"Quite an eventful shift then, yesterday." Sherlock said in the cab.

John shrugged. "Where now then? Crime scene?"

"There'll be nothing there now. Let's go and take a look at Mr Marcos at the Morgue."

They were a mercifully short time examining the body. John was not emotionless on viewing corpses, and with those he'd recently treated even less so. He kept resisting the urge to push Sherlock away and continue trying to get Marcos' circulation working again. Sherlock noticed.

"Are you OK?"

"What? Yes, fine."

Sherlock held him in a gaze for a moment. "There's nothing more to learn here. He died from the knife wounds. Molly!" He shouted loudly and John jumped. Molly appeared. "We're done. You can take him away."

"Are we going to see the others?" John asked.

"Later; we should go back to the flat and get some lunch."

"You want lunch?"

Sherlock smiled at him. "No, but you do. The others will be just as dead this afternoon."

oOo

As the walked in the flat, Sherlock grabbed the post from the hall table. Shoving most of the letters at John he focused on a padded envelope that was unstamped but had his name on it. He opened it while walking up the stairs and stopped so suddenly John crashed into the back of him.

"Mrs Hudson! Mrs Hudson!" he yelled loudly shoving past John and back downstairs. The landlady appeared. "Who left this here?" he demanded sounding furious.

"What? Oh that parcel; a bike courier brought it for you."

"What did he look like?"

"Look like? I don't know; he was a bike courier!"

"Sherlock, what's going on?" asked John coming downstairs. Sherlock didn't answer him but ran up to the flat pulling his phone out as he did so. John followed.

"Mycroft, someone's been in her room!" he shouted into the phone. There was a pause "No! Shut up! Someone's been in her room! You need to come here right now!" he hung up and flung the phone across the room.

Sitting down he took a framed photograph out of the envelope with great care. He put the envelope carefully to one side and he closely examined the picture, holding it up at various angles to the light. Eventually he turned it over and gently opened the back. There was nothing there but a piece of unmarked corrugated card. He left the photo face down on his lap and sat back, resting his hand over his mouth.

"Sherlock? What's going on?" John finally asked.

Sherlock remained completely motionless, so John just sat down and waited with him.


	5. Minerva

_For some reason I'm losing confidence in this. This happened with my previous story too so I'm going to persevere for a few more chapters (hopefully). I know OCs really can go either way, but I was intrigued by this concept._

The Six Phantoms. Chapter Five; Minerva

Mycroft arrived precisely twenty-seven minutes after he was summoned. He had two box files under his arm which he put down on the table. Whatever was going on, he was clearly taking it as seriously as Sherlock was. John instantly leapt up to let him take his usual armchair, opposite Sherlock. Sherlock didn't move but glowered in Mycroft's direction.

"I need to go and see her." This was all the welcome he was going to give his brother.

"Sherlock, I can assure you that Minerva is perfectly well, safe and secure. I spoke to her doctor immediately after hearing from you. She's fine. No-one who hasn't been given clearance has been into her room."

"I need to see her. I need to go wherever you've got her; I need to see her. Now."

"Sherlock..."

"Someone _has_ been in her room!" Sherlock shouted. He thrust the photograph at Mycroft who took it and gave it a glance.

"You're sure this is hers and not a copy?"

Sherlock snarled. Mycroft examined the photograph in exactly the way Sherlock had.

"Who's... Minerva?" John asked looking from one brother to the other. There was no answer. "What's wrong with her?" he asked.

"Nothing!" Sherlock shot out.

"Now, Sherlock..." Mycroft began.

"There is _nothing_ wrong with her!" Sherlock repeated, sulkily.

Mycroft looked at John. "I thought you'd be interested so I brought you her medical notes." He gestured at the box files.

John stared at him. "I'm not going to read someone's medical notes without their permission! Not if they're not in my care!"

Sherlock snorted. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him. He handed the photo back to Sherlock.

"Perhaps I shall make my weekly visit today rather than wait."

"I need to come with you. I need... I need to see her." Sherlock's tone was almost pleading.

Mycroft looked back at him. "We'll all go. Doctor Watson can get her to sign a medical information release." There was sarcasm dripping from him.

Sherlock instantly leapt up and grabbed his coat. He was already in the large black sedan outside when John and Mycroft got outside.

oOo

John spent to car journey wedged between the two Holmes brothers. Neither of them said anything. Sherlock seemed to have withdrawn entirely into himself. His hand lay on lay on the photograph that he held on his lap. Eventually he noticed John looking at it so he handed it over to him. John was so startled he'd have cried out if the silence in the car hadn't been so oppressive.

The picture showed three children. The oldest looked about fourteen. He was stood straight and neat and was wearing a blazer. He had more hair, but the same look of disdain as the current Mycroft. A younger Sherlock was stood next to him aged about eight. He looked relaxed and happy in a stripy top and cords just like any other child in the world. He was grinning broadly. Next to him, and being gripped very firmly by the hand, was a little girl. She looked a couple of years younger than Sherlock. She was looking at something a long way beyond the photographer. John flipped the photo over and on the wooden frame was etched the words "To Minty, love Sherlock."

They finally reached their destination; a heavily gated facility some way outside of London. Mycroft walked up the steps and pressed the intercom button. John caught Sherlock by the arm.

"You have a _sister_? I had no idea!"

"Well who did you think Minerva was?"

"I don't know! An aunt maybe? Or an ex-girlfriend."

Sherlock stared at him. "You heard 'Minerva' and your mind leapt to 'girlfriend?' John; is there something wrong with your brain?" He took the photograph back, crossly.

The door was being held open for them and Sherlock ran quickly up the steps to it.

A small neat nurse led them through the building answering Mycroft's questions about Minerva's health and behaviour. Sherlock had become quiet and intense the way he did when he was close to solving a case. His excitement was almost palpable.

Up a staircase and along a corridor and they stopped outside a white door with a small window in it. The nurse glanced in then knocked sharply on the door.

"Visitors, Minerva!"

She produced a key-card and unlocked the door.

"She's locked in?" John asked, surprised.

"She's free to leave her room as long as she summons a nurse." Mycroft told him. "We can't have her wandering around alone."

The door opened and Sherlock virtually knocked down the nurse trying to get inside. There was an excited cry from within.

"Sherlock! I knew you'd come!"

"She's been going on about it all day." The nurse confirmed. "I thought we were going to have trouble today."

Mycroft nodded at her curtly, then gestured that John should go inside.

Minerva had the same tall, slim build as Sherlock. She also had the same soft, dark curls though hers were long and unkempt. He couldn't see her face as it was buried in Sherlock's shoulder. He was holding her tightly, his eyes closed. They stood there that way, oblivious to anyone else, despite Mycroft clearing his throat.

Minerva pulled away first.

"This is for you." She picked up a photograph, identical to the one in Sherlock's hand and gave it to him. He took it and gave her the other, then sat down in an armchair and started examining the new picture. Minerva scurried onto her bed and sat there with her knees drawn up, watching him. She hadn't looked at the other two in the room at all.

"Did you see who put it here?" Sherlock asked her.

"No, they doubled my Tamazepam last night so I was dead asleep."

"Why did they change your dose?" Mycroft asked her sharply.

She didn't look at him but shrugged slightly.

"You knew it was wrong but you took them anyway?" he demanded.

"Of course I did." She continued to stare at Sherlock examining the photograph. John suddenly felt that he was intruding on a family moment. Possibly as close a family moment as these particular three siblings could experience. He shifted, uncomfortably and thought briefly and painfully of Harry. Minerva looked up at him sharply.

"I don't like doctors." She told him, looking away again quickly. He didn't ask how she knew.

"He's a friend, Minty." Sherlock told her mildly.

She looked at John again. He got the sensation she was reading his mind. He'd had the same sensation while under the gaze of both Sherlock and Mycroft so he wasn't surprised and he shook it off.

"I'm pleased to meet you." He told her. She looked away without answering.

Sherlock had now taken the back off the photo and John noticed something pressed between the back and the photo board.

"What is it?" John asked.

"It's a warning." Minerva said, without looking up.

Sherlock handed it to John. It was a flyer for the Phantom of the Opera with a post-it note stuck on. The note read 'Back off. JM'.

"Moriarty." John said.

"Of course Moriarty." Sherlock said bitterly. He rested his mouth on his hand and started out of the window. Minerva continued to stare at him, curled up in a tight ball holding onto her bare feet.

"Minty, I'm going to have to take you away from here." Sherlock finally said.

"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock." Mycroft snapped.

"We have to; she's in danger here."

"Can you suggest somewhere she'd be safer?"

"She can stay with me."

"Don't be ridiculous." Mycroft said again.

"John could look after her."

"Sherlock..." John interjected.

"John has more than enough to do taking care of just you!" Mycroft snapped at his brother.

"No I don't!" John cut in, loyally. Sherlock looked at him with a half smile.

"Oh, that reminds me, Minty. John what's your permission to read your medical notes."

"Really?" She asked, bemused. "Most people just dive right in."

"He's not like most people."

Again John got the piercing look. "No, he's not." She said softly, with a slight frown.

"He still can't give Minerva the twenty-four hour care she needs!" Mycroft snapped.

"She isn't safe here!" Sherlock snapped back at him.

"She isn't safe anywhere!"

The two brothers glared at each other. Minerva watched them. Though she didn't seem outwardly emotional she dropped down to lie on the bed, curled up. She stared into a corner.

"Anything would be better keeping her sedated and locked in a cage!" Sherlock yelled. "She's not getting any better like this!"

"She won't get any better, Sherlock, ever!"

"I did!"

"She's not like you!"

At this point John pushed his way between them. "Perhaps this isn't the best place for this conversation." He said quietly, though he was aware that Minerva was the least emotional person in the room at that moment.

The tension was finally broken by the arrival of a doctor.

"Gosh, Minerva; you have quite a party today, don't you!" He beamed at her and seemed unconcerned that she didn't move or respond in any way.

"Doctor Hindle; a word with you if I may?" Mycroft said to him. "In private." He glared at John who held his gaze.

"Of course." The doctor responded. "Minerva, would you like to take your other guests to the lounge for coffee?"

She was suddenly animated. "Can I show them the garden?"

He hesitated. John realised this must be a rare treat.

"We'll look after her." He appealed.

Doctor Hindle nodded. "OK then, go and ask Nurse Louise for your shoes and socks. It's cold; you'll need a coat too."

She sprang up like a child promised an outing to the fair. Sherlock and John couldn't help but smile at her joy.

oOo

A few minutes later, with Minerva suitably dressed, they were walking down a flagstone path. Sherlock was holding her hand firmly, but with the same easy grace as the child in the photograph. John knew that Sherlock was capable of deep affection though he rarely showed it. He smiled watching him now. Both of the people he was walking with seemed far younger than they were and be couldn't help but catch some of their lightness of heart.

Minerva took them to the pond. It would have been picturesque if it wasn't for the heavy metal grill covering the top of it. She strode out right over it to watch the koi carp swimming beneath her feet. She then crossed right to the other side where there were a scattering of trees in front of the high wired fence bordering the property. Sherlock followed her.

She stood with her back to a tree and pressed her hands and head against it.

"It must be nice to be a tree." She said, closing her eyes. "I love it here. It's so peaceful. The fish don't think and neither do the trees."

"Thinking isn't all bad, Minty." Sherlock told her gently.

She opened her eyes again and looked at him.

"I'm glad you don't mind it." She said eventually. She looked across at John who'd stayed at the other side and was looking into the distance.

"It must be nice not to do it though."

"Oh, John thinks."

"He loves you."

"I know."

"Why?"

"God knows."

"You love him too."

"Yes."

"What's that like?"

Sherlock thought a moment, caught off guard. "Odd. Complicated sometimes. Nice mostly."

She smiled. "I'm glad." She said again. The rested quietly for a time.

Quite suddenly Minerva spun round towards the tree screaming and started beating it hard with her hands and fists.

John started running across the pond as soon as she'd moved but Sherlock was already there. He grabbed her tightly holding her arms firmly against her. She was screaming, uncontrolled and struggling against him. "Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! It's not fair, it's not! It's not! Stupid! Stupid!"

"Minty, stop it!" Sherlock tried to soothe her. "It's OK, it's all right; settle down."

Eventually she stopped struggling against him. He released her slightly but didn't let go. Her hands were shaking and bleeding and she looked lost and confused. She started to cry and wiped blood on to her face. Sherlock had turned inwards too now, so John gently took over.

"It's OK; I'm not going to hurt you. Let me see your hands." He took out his handkerchief and started to wipe her face and hands. "It's OK." He said again. "We can fix these right up. Let's go back to the house."

They walked slowly back, this time John gently guiding Minerva with Sherlock following behind. John shivered in the sudden evening cold.

In Minerva's room he gently washed her hands clean. Pushing her sleeves back slightly he could see many more scars. Some looked like they would have required stitching.

"I'm going to go and get some bandages." He told her lightly. "You'll be OK here with Sherlock."

Before he could leave, however, Mycroft and Doctor Hindle were back. Mycroft pounced instantly.

"What happened to her?" He strode towards her but she shrank away from him.

"Nothing." Sherlock said sullenly.

"So much for you taking care of her." Mycroft snarled. Sherlock pouted and said nothing.

John looked at Doctor Hindle. "It was nothing much." He said lightly. "Minty had a brief run-in with a tree but she's fine now. Her hands need a bit of attention but there's no lasting damage."

Doctor Hindle nodded. "I'll sort it out."

"We'd better be going." Mycroft said. "I think Minerva's had quite enough excitement for one day."

John got up. Minerva reached out and touched his hand gently.

"I'm pleased to have met you." She told him softly.

"Me too." He told her.

Sherlock stood up too and Minerva hugged him again.

"I'll come back soon." He told her. "I promise." He let go first this time.

oOo

Back in the flat, what seemed like days later, Sherlock walked all the way upstairs then came back to the lounge in his pyjamas and dressing gown. He lay down on the sofa, sent a text and dropped his phone on the floor.

"I've told Lestrade I can't help him with the case." He told John by way of explanation.

"Oh!"

"You're disappointed." Sherlock looked across at him.

"Yes I am." John responded honestly. "But I haven't had a psychopathic mass murderer send threats via my sister. So really I can bog off with my disappointment."

Sherlock snorted and looked away. "Thank you, John." Was all he said.


	6. Joanna Russell

The Six Phantoms. Chapter Six; Joanna Russell.

Two days had passed without incident. Though John felt that the lack of incidents was an incident in itself. Sherlock had appeared to be... completely normal. He ate, drank, read books, watched the television all without comment, apart from the time the news came on and he requested a different channel. There had been no experiments and no explosions. The flat was tidy and they had enough milk.

"Are you _sure_ you're OK?" John had asked the previous evening.

"Yes of course!"Sherlock had snapped, tired of being asked. "Why wouldn't I be?"

John had stared at him a while.

"OK, well I'm going out then. Got a date."

"Another one?" Sherlock was incredulous.

John snorted. "Yes, another one. The last was what, a mere three weeks ago. I'm clearly the most promiscuous man who ever lived."

Sherlock smiled. "I won't wait up."

"I wouldn't want you to."

So John had managed to get an evening off. He was still worried about his flatmate and slightly sad that he'd given up the case. He knew, despite the detective's calm exterior, he was having difficulty keeping his brain from travelling the streets of London on the trail of the Moriarty, even while his body stayed on the sofa. He also knew he was thinking of Minerva. Though the two box files had stayed precisely where they had been, he'd noticed Sherlock staring at them. John also suspected the 'ordinary' persona was taking some effort and he couldn't work out why Sherlock was bothering with it. He wondered whether he, John, preferred the calmness or not. A nagging dull ache in his right leg suggested not.

On the other hand, he was able to come home after his date, with his Date, and sneak giggling upstairs without any distractions, diversions, guns firing randomly, or anything else untoward happening. He smiled and relaxed.

The next morning he woke strangely early. He smiled happily and rolled onto his side, wrapping his arm around Marie and enjoying the smell of her hair and neck.

A whispered voice cut into his reverie.

"John? John?" Sherlock was also prodding his shoulder.

"Ow!" John whispered crossly. "Sherlock; what are you doing?"

"Oh good, you're awake. I need your help."

"Sherlock!" John whispered furiously. "You can't just wander in here!"

"Why?"

John stared at him incredulous. "I'm not alone!" He pointed out after a long pause.

"I know!" Sherlock whispered. "I'm not completely unobservant, and I'm making every effort not to disturb her. Wait; that's not Mel. What happened to Mel? I liked Mel."

"Who's Mel?" A muffled voice cut in from the other side of the bed.

"Oh God! Please kill me now!" John prayed earnestly with his hand over his face.

"Lestrade's downstairs" Sherlock told him, not bothering to whisper any more.

"So?"

"So he won't go away."

"So?"

"So I need you to make him go away!"

"Sherlock, right now I can't make _you_ go away!"

Sherlock sat back and considered this. "Will you help me or not?" He finally asked. "Because if not, I'll have to find another solution."

John now considered this. "Go and wait downstairs, I'll be there in a minute.

oOo

Marie wasted no time in getting up, dressed and fleeing the house. She had not been interested in explanations or apologies. By the time John got downstairs he found his head was aching in a way that suggested he'd had a touch too much red wine at dinner. He slumped through the lounge and into the kitchen waving away Lestrade and Sherlock who had both started up as soon as he'd appeared.

"John, will you tell him..."

"John, he's not being reasonable..."

"I'm having tea!" John snapped at both of them. "If you want tea, I'll make you some. Everything else will have to wait until afterwards."

The other two waited. Sherlock seated calmly on the sofa, Lestrade stood peering out of the window while biting his nails. John came back in with his tea and as soon as he'd swallowed the first mouthful they started up again.

"John!"

"John!"

"Stop it!" John yelled, then he rubbed his head. He looked angrily at Sherlock. "I know what you have to say. Lestrade; talk."

"He's not being reasonable!" Lestrade stated. "He won't take the case. I've even offered him consultant's money!"

John frowned, briefly wondering how that worked and what sort of skill they'd claim Sherlock had on an invoice. He shook his head. Through the subsequent pain, he spoke to Sherlock.

"Have you told him why?"

"Why?" Sherlock seemed baffled by the suggestion. "No, I told him "no" and he won't listen."

John turned back to Lestrade. "He can't help you because Moriarty has told him not to; he threatened his sister. He seems serious."

"His sister?" He stared at Sherlock. "You've got a sister? Wait; Moriarty? The bomber? Didn't he die at the swimming pool when Sherlock did?"

"Apparently not." John told him.

Lestrade sat down. "Well why didn't you just tell me?" He demanded of Sherlock. "We can offer you security for your sister."

Sherlock snorted. John sighed and translated for Lestrade.

"I think he thinks that if Mycroft couldn't guarantee her security, you've got no chance."

"Who's Mycroft.?"

"Brother."

Lestrade looked again at Sherlock. "You've got a brother?"

"Yes, Lestrade." He answered. "Contrary to the rumours at Scotland Yard, I did not fall from the sky fully formed. I have a family."

"And you think your brother can keep your sister safer than the police can."

Sherlock snorted again.

"Mycroft is sort of into... security." John explained.

"What, like... mob?"

"No, more like government.

"Oh."

Lestrade sat back and looked fairly defeated. "I need him." He told John. "Apart from the Daniel Marcos murder there have been seven more..."

"Phantoms?" John asked.

"No, this time they were all photographers. That, as far as we can tell is the only connection they have to each other; they all ran small independent photography supply shops. We have no clue what links them to the other murders though everything else is pretty much the same. We also don't know if there will be more victims, and if there are, who they will be."

"When did this happen?" John asked.

"Yesterday." He looked across at Sherlock who showed no outward sign of listening. "And on top of all this, there's this missing kid."

"Missing kid?"

"Yes, don't you two watch the news?"

"Not recently."

"Her name is Joanna Russell, aged nine. Didn't make it home from her Dad's access visit on Sunday. She's been gone nearly thirty-six hours. It's not looking good."

He sat back and looked exhausted. He looked up at John who was suddenly alert and upright, staring at him.

"Joanna Russell is missing?"

"You know her?"

"I met her Friday night; Halloween."

"I can help with the kid." Sherlock suddenly blurted out.

"You know about her?" Lestrade asked, confused.

"No, I don't have any facts just now. I mean I can help you with that case. I just can't touch the Phantoms."

"I need help with the Phantoms. You can't just come in and pick and choose."

"Of course I can. Why do you think I didn't join the Police Force? It was precisely so I could pick and choose. I'm not trying to be difficult." John snorted at this but Sherlock ignored him. "I can't touch the Phantom case and that obviously extends to the photographers. You might not need me for Joanna Russell but if I can help I will. Her case sounds frankly dull, but I can't touch the other no matter how much I want to."

Lestrade stared at him, but seemed happy to take the compromise. "Dimmock's leading on Russell. I'll tell him to get in touch if he needs you."

Sherlock nodded.

"I'm sorry I disturbed your morning." Lestrade told John, getting up to leave.

"S'all right." He answered sounding resigned. "I knew it couldn't last."

oOo

After Lestrade had gone, Sherlock sat and regarded John for a long time.

"What?" John asked him suspiciously.

"I was thinking, while we wait for Dimmock we could get started on our other case."

"What other case?" asked John with a sinking heart. He knew what was coming.

Sherlock grinned. "The case of the insane sister." He got up to sit at the table, opening a box file.

John groaned. "No, Sherlock; I can't help you with that."

"What do you mean; of course you can. You're a doctor and all her records are here."

"Yes, I know. Listen, Sherlock; Minerva's clearly had lots of times with teams of specialist doctors. I know you're not satisfied with some of the answers but there's no way I'm going to be able to give you an answer you like by spending a few days reading her notes."

Sherlock stared at the table for a while. John wondered if he was actually taking in what he had said. Apparently not.

"But it's all so ambiguous! I don't think I've seen an actual diagnosis in all of this! Look at this one here!" He flicked though to a report. He'd obviously spent some time examining these. "'Shows signs of schizophrenia.' What does that even mean? Either she has it or she doesn't!"

"It means that at that time she showed some symptoms that might suggest schizophrenia. That might be one of her problems, or the same symptoms might have related to something else."

Sherlock ignored him. He held up another piece of paper. "Look, this one says 'sociopathic tendencies'". He held up another paper. "This one says 'psychopathic tendencies'." He stared at John. "So which is it?"

"One doesn't cancel out the other. Also, she's likely to be different on different days. With mental illness there isn't a script to follow. If she's ill, and I think you might need to accept she is, she's not necessarily going to be the same from day to day. People who don't have a mental illness aren't the same from day to day; you can't hold her to a higher standard."

"Do you think I'm mentally ill?"

John stared at him. That was indeed a tough question. "No." He finally said. "No I don't."

"But she's the same as me!"

"No she's not. Look." He rifled through to find the report he wanted and realised he was giving away his own level of interest. "Here; when she was seven she tried to cut her own eyes out so she didn't have to see any more. She'd tried to kill herself three times before she was twelve, and she came pretty damned close once then and more often since. She couldn't go to school, she hears voices, she's over-stimulated every time she meets someone new... Sherlock." He reached over and held his friends wrist. "There's nothing like this in your files. She's not like you."

Sherlock pouted. "But if she just had something to focus on..."

"Sherlock, no. It's not that she's not trying; it's that she can't."

He released his wrist and Sherlock looked away. Feeling uncomfortable John went into the kitchen to make them some tea and toast. He knew that Sherlock must have worked out that he knew the rest. He'd read about the possible ADD and the extreme adverse reaction to Ritalin. He'd read that someone, some incredibly misguided person, had given her cocaine after their mother's funeral and he'd read about the resulting chaos and coma. He knew that Sherlock hadn't been allowed to see her again. He knew they'd both reacted badly to that too.

He took a cup of tea into Sherlock who was still sat where he had been, in front of the files.

"When did you read my medical notes?" Sherlock asked him.

"Hmm?"

"I thought it was unethical if I wasn't in your care." There was a ghost of a smile.

"Oh. Well, you were dead. Usual ethics didn't apply."

"Oh."

Sherlock's phone rang. He answered briefly and with one question. "Where?".

"Right," he said to John. "Let's go and find Joanna Russell."


	7. In the City

The Six Phantoms. Chapter seven; In the City.

Sherlock was quiet as usual in the cab. Under usual circumstances John would leave him alone with his thoughts until invited to speak but there was something playing on his mind.

"Sherlock…"

Sherlock grunted. John took this as permission to continue.

"I know your usual premise is that everyone is a suspect until you're sure they're not…"

Sherlock turned to look at him with a raised eyebrow.

"…and I know that in these cases the parents are sometimes involved, but if they're not, if they're not involved at all, then the worst thing imaginable has just happened to them."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean…" John paused. What did he mean? "I mean it would probably be best if you didn't tell them their missing daughter was dull, boring and not special in any way."

"She probably wasn't."

"I know. Well, I know that you think that, but what I'm saying is if they weren't involved…"

"If!"

"Yes, if they weren't involved, they don't need you making them feel worse."

"But you said 'the worst thing imaginable has just happened to them.' By definition, I can't make them feel worse."

John sighed and shook his head.

Sherlock frowned at him. "I can be both tactful and sensitive you know."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

They lapsed into silence until the cab pulled in outside a block of flats on Woodseer Street. There was a visible police presence. DI Dimmock was waiting for them.

"Sherlock, thanks for coming. Do you want to come up and meet the Mum first? She's with a doctor at the moment. I think it's just shock though and she'll probably see you; she's getting a bit desperate."

"No, thank you. I think I'll leave the parents to themselves if I can. If I need them to answer some specifics later I'll let you know. You can let me have the facts now as we have them so far."

"Right, OK. Well, Joanna was dropped off here at 4:00pm Sunday afternoon. We have CCTV showing the drop off and her leaving the car. She certainly went in the direction of the door to her block but it's off camera, and she wasn't seen from then on. Her Mum rang her mobile to find out where she was at 4:10 and she answered and said she'd been dropped off, but was going to the newsagents before coming home. That was the last contact. Mum reported her missing at 7:00PM when she couldn't get hold of her to call her in for dinner."

"Why did the Mum panic that she wasn't back after ten minutes but didn't then report her missing for three hours?"

"She's had problems with Dad's timekeeping before. She wanted to make sure she was back at the right time, but when she told her about the newsagents she assumed she'd met a friend and was staying out for a bit. She said that wasn't unusual. She couldn't get her on her mobile at around 6:00 so she started going to ask around her friends but none of them had seen her."

"Why didn't her Dad take her all the way to the flat?" John asked.

"The divorce." Dimmock said as an explanation.

"It wasn't… calm?"

"No, definitely not calm." Dimmock told him. "They've been divorced three years and they still seem to be arguing regularly. Mostly they communicate via Joanna but this weekend they needed to talk directly because of the hospital thing. It would seem that accusations were made and there was a fight."

"She blames him?"

"Other way around. This was his access weekend but Mum had shifted the pick up to Saturday rather than after school on Friday so Joanna could go to a Halloween disco there. He says if he'd have picked up like normal this wouldn't have happened. Mum then didn't want her to go this weekend at all because of the whole assault thing but Dad went nuts and insisted. I think Mum thinks Dad's still got her somehow. We've obviously been all over his place and round his friends too and we think it's a non-starter but Mum's…" he trailed off, shaking his head.

"Where does she go to school?" Sherlock asked, apparently finding the emotional state of the parents quite irrelevant.

"St. Joseph's in Whitecross Street."

"Right. Thank you." Sherlock said briefly. "I'll be in touch."

"Wait, aren't I coming with you?" There was a hint of disappointment in his voice.

"No; I work better with just John. Come along John!" He strode off towards the flats.

John gave Dimmock a sympathetic look then hurried after Sherlock.

"What? Was that it? Don't you want to talk to people?" he asked him when he caught up.

"I didn't think you wanted me to talk to people. I am too likely to upset them, remember?"

"Well, obviously you have to talk to _some_ people. Her friends, her neighbours…"

"Obviously?" Sherlock had been walking along the front of the flat looking closely at the grassy area between the flats and the pavement. "What _obvious_ questions should I ask them?"

"I don't know; have you seen Joanna? Do you know if she was acting a bit…strange?" he finished lamely.

Sherlock stared at him. "They've already said they haven't seen her; if they were lying then there's no reason to believe they'll tell me the truth now."

"But you'll at least know they're lying."

Sherlock gave this half a smile. "Bless you, John. But no, at the moment I don't know who I need to talk to; I'll get that later. The parents aren't involved, or at least it seems highly unlikely at this point. I'm willing to bet that they spend so much of their time arguing about her they've forgotten to focus _on_ her. They've missed something in her life; I'm sure of it. Anyway; there's nothing here." He indicated the ground that he'd been looking at. "There's no sign of a struggle. It was early enough for people to be down here and out on the street; certainly the Mum expected it. She wasn't snatched. Wherever Joanna Russell went on Sunday afternoon, she went willingly."

"Where do you think she went? And with whom?"

"She was alone. She was alone for the first time since you saw here at the hospital. She was confused and not getting answers from the people she was with. I think she went to get them by herself."

He walked down the street towards the newsagents. He stopped outside it for a moment and looked down towards the City.

"Where did she say she'd been on Friday when you saw her?"

"Er, she said she'd woken up outside the school."

"Her school I should imagine." He set off towards Brick Lane.

After a few minutes of walking he looked at John.

"What can you tell me about her?"

"Me?"

"Yes, you. I _obviously_ need to ask people questions; I'm asking you."

They crossed they turned into Brick Lane, then walked on towards Hanbury Street.

"Sherlock, I met her very briefly; there are people who know her much better than I do."

"Yes, but they're all biased. They'll tell me whatever they want to believe about her. What did you think of her?"

"She was completely traumatised, Sherlock; hardly the best time to assess her character."

"Traumatised." He repeated. "So you'd say the sex wasn't consensual."

John stopped dead. "What?" He darted after Sherlock and grabbing him by the arm made him stop too. "Sherlock; she's _nine_!"

Sherlock looked at him confused. "I don't mean legally; I mean did she want to have sex? From what little you've told me there were no physical sign of a struggle."

"Sherlock… she's _nine_!" John said again.

"Look, John, if you're going to be continually upset by the fact that the victim here is a child then you'll be of no use to me and no use to her either. As far as I'm concerned, she's technically old enough to understand the concept of sex. Your friend at Scotland Yard indicated she at least understood the implications and retrospectively was upset. What I want to know is could there have been a boyfriend of hers, maybe someone a bit older, maybe someone she wanted to impress."

John stared at him, and then took a deep breath.

"No."

"No?"

"No. No absolutely not consensual in any way, legally or otherwise. There's no way that child…" He trailed off. "Just; no."

"Good." Sherlock said. Noticing John's face, he clarified. "By which I mean that that's useful information to me; not that it's a good thing." He sighed in a frustrated fashion.

They continued their walk.

"Thank God you didn't talk to her parents!" John muttered under his breath.

He followed Sherlock along the streets in silence. Sherlock lead the way occasionally stopping because something attracted his attention but he didn't share his thoughts with John. They finally crossed Chiswell Street and turned into Whitecross Street. St. Joseph's school was a large, imposing, red-brick structure.

"Front or back?" Sherlock asked John.

"Hmm?"

"Where did she say she was?"

"I didn't ask for specifics."

Sherlock gave him an exasperated look and then walked along to a high gate which appeared to lead into the playground. He leapt up and swarmed over it. John sighed and hauled himself up to follow.

"I don't want another Asbo!" he called to Sherlock who was already half way across the playground. Sherlock ignored him.

He straddled the fence to follow, wobbled, lost his footing and fell the six feet to the floor winding himself.

"Hurry up, John!" came Sherlock's impatient call.

John got to his feet, cursing and grumbling and hobbled after him.


	8. Jacob Coleman Photography

The Six Phantoms. Chapter Eight; Jacob Coleman Photography.

Sherlock was squatting by some sheds examining the ground when John came up.

"What happened to the military training?" Sherlock asked him. "It was a six-foot gate!"

"I'm a little out of practise." Replied John tersely. "And I'm fine, by the way, thanks for your concern."

Sherlock grunted then straightened up. He continued to gaze around the school grounds.

"Those must be the windows to the main hall." He said to John. "There is a fire escape next to them. That must have been where the disco was on Friday night and the doors were open. Certainly the children were allowed access to this area, look; smoking behind the bike shed." He grinned at John. "That takes me back. I can't tell if any of them were Joanna's though."

"She didn't smell like she'd been smoking. I'd have noticed on a kid that age."

"Let's assume not then. But we do know that this area wasn't empty. Again, if she'd have been forced away from here or there was a stranger involved someone would have noticed. There would have been chaperones at the party."

"They didn't notice the kids smoking?"

"Maybe they did. Maybe they didn't care. I need her Facebook password." He had taken out his phone and was rapidly sending a text. "When we know who her friends are we can find out if she was at the party at all."

"She lied to her Mum?"

"While I can accept that it's unusual for a nine-year-old to be able to consent to sex, I hold that the vast majority of them tell lies when it suits them."

"Yeah, all right then."

"Problem?"

"No."

"There is a problem; what is it?"

"It's just… She's a child, Sherlock. I know that logically they're not all innocent and that some of them, even at primary school, smoke behind the bike sheds and lie, and watch adult films, and play computer games about stealing cars and stabbing people. But this one, Joanna, will be completely terrified right now. Whatever transgressions she might have had, she's scared out of her wits right now. Or worse. I can't forget that."

"We've been through this before, John! How does focussing on that help me work?"

"It doesn't! I know it doesn't! But trying to forget it certainly doesn't help me feel better either!"

"So this is about making you feel better?"

"No! No, it's just… dehumanising her doesn't work for me. I can't do it." He rubbed his forehead. His headache appeared to be coming back. "Look, we're wasting time talking about this. You do whatever you have to do; I'm right behind you."

Sherlock gave him a long look. John held his gaze. "There's nothing here." Sherlock finally said. "But she must have been close because she told you she was here and she walked to the hospital. If it was a lie it must have been a plausible one."

He went back to the gate and scaled back to the other side. This time he waited for John, watching him nonchalantly as he dropped down to the pavement.

"Right." Sherlock said. "I suggest we do a circuit of the school grounds from here, and gradually work our way outwards until we've made it to Bart's. When Dimmock gets me that password we'll see if we can find out a bit more about her. If we pass a shop, you should get something to eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"Yes you are; it's several hours past your lunchtime."

"I'm fine, Sherlock!"

"You get contrary when you're hungry."

"No I don't!"

"Fine. Stay hungry then but stop arguing with me."

John would have responded but at that moment his stomach rumbled, loudly.

"Right then." Sherlock said, looking at him. "Lets go."

oOo

In the next street they found a shop and John did indeed go in for snacks. Sherlock followed him and asked the shopkeeper whether he'd served a young girl from the school on either Friday evening or Sunday afternoon. He got a long, detailed and complicated answer which boiled down to; yes, the kid's come in all the time but they're trouble, so he wouldn't serve them or let the come in any more.

"Well, it was a shot in the dark." Said Sherlock as they left. Suddenly he stopped dead.

"What is it?" John asked.

Sherlock didn't answer, but John followed his gaze across the street to another shop. 'Jacob's Photography Supplies and Studio'. There was a handwritten sign on the door. They crossed over to read it but they both knew what it was going to say.

'_Jacob Coleman died tragically on Monday evening. This shop will remain closed at the current time. We apologise for the inconvenience and thank our loyal customers for their support at this time.'_

John took a deep breath and stepped backwards.

Sherlock stayed absolutely still. After a few moments he got his phone out of his pocket and made a call. His voice was icily calm.

"Mycroft? We need to move her somewhere. Please." There was a slight pause. "Thank you."

He hung up and called to John. "Call Dimmock and tell him he needs to get down here with a forensics team. Tell him to hang up and call Joanna Russell's mobile phone."

John did as instructed. A moment later he followed Sherlock into the mouth of an alleyway leading to the back of the shop. A wrought-iron gate blocked them from going further, but from somewhere further back they heard the tinny noise of a mobile phone starting to ring.

oOo

Dimmock and his team arrived swiftly. They wasted no time in breaking through the heavy padlock on the gate and swarming inside. Sherlock stayed out on the pavement, watching them. John looked at his friend, deeply concerned.

Finally Dimmock approached them. "She's not here." He told them. "It is her phone though; she's definitely been here. There are signs of a struggle. You can go in if you want to take a look."

Sherlock didn't move.

"I have her e-mail account details here too. Mum says she's not on Facebook." He held out a slip of paper. Sherlock looked down at it but didn't take it. For a long moment, John thought he was going to walk away. Finally he took the paper and nodded at Dimmock.

"Lestrade will need to see this too. It would appear your two cases are linked."

"I've already told him. He's in Chelsea at the moment but he's on his way."

"Good. Well, if your men are finished, I'd like a quick look."

He was brief in his search but thorough, despite needing to stop regularly for police photographers and forensics teams to collect images and data. In the yard behind the shop was a rear entrance to the building that led directly into a small studio. There was nothing special here; it wasn't big or full of complicated equipment. There were just a few tripods, lights and screens. There was a corridor between this room and the storeroom to the shop. Access to the flats above consisted of a metal fire escape on this side, and a separate street entrance on the other.

In the studio there was a standing lamp that had been knocked over, and the shattered blub was still scattered over the ground. Sherlock noted scuff marks on the door about a metre up.

"She was carried out of here." He said to John. "She kicked the wall here. She was able to struggle."

There were more signs in the courtyard but Sherlock didn't stay and instead headed out to the road.

"Well?" Dimmock asked him, eagerly.

"You won't find her here but she came here willingly on Sunday evening. After that, a man she knew took her away against her will. The man you're looking for is youngish; I'd say in his thirties, maybe forty on the outside. Medium build, medium height, quite strong and physically able. He'll have connections to someone who can supply him with drugs, he may have previous convictions; I'd start by looking on the child-protection register for people in this area. He's a photographer. If the man who owned this shop fits that description, we're in trouble and Joanna is even more so. I'll be in the computer room at Bart's seeing who she's been talking to. If Lestrade wants me, that's where I'll be."

He turned and walked away. John, as usual, followed.

"What about Minerva?" He asked him, tentatively.

Sherlock stopped and rubbed the back of his head before answering. "Mycroft says he'll take care of her. I'll just have to trust him." The bitterness in his tone stung John.

They walked on in silence.


	9. Facebook

The Six Phantom's. Chapter Nine: Facebook

They were alone in the computer cluster room at Bart's hospital. Sherlock spent very little time in Joanna's email account.

"She's on Facebook." He told John.

"But her Mum says she wasn't." He shook his head when Sherlock gave him an 'idiot' look. "How are we going to get her password for that?" he asked.

Sherlock had already opened the homepage and was quickly entering Joanna's email address. "I'm willing to bet it's the same as her email. Yes; I'm in. People really shouldn't do that."

"I do that."

"Yes, I know."

John gave an involuntary shiver wondering how often Sherlock had hacked into his account. He decided to change his passwords as soon as he got home.

"'Godalming', 'Gladstone', 'Sherlock10'" Sherlock said while quickly scrolling through Joanna's profile page.

"What?"

"When you change your password, those would be your three most likely choices. You shouldn't have your PINs all the same either. Especially not if you're using your date of birth. Really, I'm glad I had chance to talk to you about this."

"Er, thanks." John responded. "Could you perhaps get your mind back to Joanna?"

"My mind has never left Joanna." Sherlock told him, not taking his eyes from the computer screen. "She doesn't seem particularly close to anyone specific; there are just general, poorly spelled outpourings of love. There is this though."

Joanna Russell likes 'Jacob Coleman Photography'.

_Click_

He searched through the photographers photo albums.

"That's Joanna." John said, pointing her out.

_Click_

There were five perfectly ordinary studio shots of the little girl. Sherlock looked at the sixth image.

_Click_

He frowned. "This is wrong and I can't work out why."

John could. There was nothing hugely obvious about it though. There was a little too much make up. The clothes were a fraction too revealing. The post was a tiny bit provocative. She was pouting and not smiling. If the picture had been a snapshot taken by a friend while they were messing around with their Mum's clothes it would have been perfectly fine. This wasn't fine. This was alone in a studio while a man directed her to look like that. She looked uncomfortable.

"Why is it wrong?" Sherlock asked, frowning at it; a puzzle he couldn't quite grasp.

"You don't need to know." John told him. "You just need to know that it is. Look the photographer's name".

A link to 'Ben Carrol'.

_Click_

'Take a look at 'My Webpage''.

_Click_

There were more albums; children, pets, weddings... all completely normal. A contact box at the top showed his email address and phone number. At the bottom Sherlock found what he was looking for.

'Account holders, log in 'here''.

_Click_

Sherlock typed the e-mail address from the contact box. He hovered over the password box for a moment before he typed a few letters. He was rejected instantly.

"I wonder..." he murmured before typing again. John traced the word 'Joanna' from his keystrokes.

_Click_

He was in.

The new webpage was a further collection of albums. Sherlock stared at them, contemplating. Finally he selected one called 'Personal Pets'.

_Click_

"Jesus!" John cried out, shoving his chair backwards hard into the desk behind. He stood up and stormed over to the window, breathing hard, trying to work though his instant nausea. A small sound behind him caused him to turn back.

_Click_

Sherlock's face, lit by the light from the screen, was ugly with rage.

_Click_

"Sherlock! Don't look any more! Please!" John told him. "Let's just leave this for the police!"

_Click Click Click._

Sherlock stayed motionless until he found her.

"Joanna." He said gruffly, looking at John. "It's dated Friday October 31st."

He ran the back of his hand over his mouth.

The door opened.

"I think they're in here..." Molly's ever cheerful voice cut through the tension.

John quickly walked to the door and pushed her straight back out again while she looked at him, confused.

"Don't come in here." He told her. He pulled Lestrade and Dimmock inside and closed the door firmly.

Sherlock had moved away from the computer and was pacing the room in long strides, tugging at the back of his hair.

"You need to arrest Ben Carrol. He's got Joanna." His voice was still slightly strangled.

"Ben Carrol?" Lestrade asked looking confused.

Sherlock stopped pacing and stared at him. "You know him?"

"Yeah, I had him in for questioning Monday night. His name came up in reference to Jacob Coleman's murder. He was one of the photographers that were killed."

"I know." Sherlock snapped.

"Ben Carrol is his nephew."

Sherlock stared at him.

"You say he's got Joanna?" Lestrade clarified.

"If he doesn't, he knows where she is." Sherlock confirmed. "You'll need to seize all his computer equipment too."

Lestrade noticed the image on the screen in front of him.

"Bloody Hell." He muttered before switching the computer off at the main power switched. He yanked the plug out the back to as if he feared it might jump back into life.

He looked back to Sherlock. "Are you coming with us?"

Sherlock nodded.

Suddenly a phone rang. For a second all four men stared blankly at each other.

"It's me!" John said, strangely embarrassed. He dug his phone out of his pocket. "It's Mycroft!" He answered his phone.

There appeared to be no pleasantries; Mycroft was doing all the talking. "Where should I..." John managed to get in. "OK, I'm at..." The call was abruptly cut off.

"I've been summoned." He told Sherlock. "Unless you need me to stay with you?"

"No, I need you to go there." Sherlock told him. "Make sure she's OK. Find me afterwards."

John nodded. They all left together. Sherlock, Dimmock and Lestrade got into an unmarked police car and John into the black sedan that rolled up to the pavement behind it.


	10. Burned to the Ground

The Six Phantoms. Chapter Ten; Burned to the ground.

There was no 'Anthea' in the car. John found himself alone and wondering what Mycroft could possibly want from him now. He found himself thinking nervously of Joanna and silently praying that she was still alive and that Sherlock would find her quickly.

The car pulled up to an expensive looking building somewhere in Mayfair. He was met from the car by a concierge who ushered him into a lift, then swiped a card then keyed in a code apparently to select a floor. He didn't follow John in. When the door opened again John found himself stood in a high ceilinged hallway with several heavy looking doors leading off it.

"Hello?" He called into the silence.

"John?" Mycroft's voice carried out to him from the middle door. "In here, please."

John went in to what appeared to be Mycroft Holmes' living room. It looked like it would usually have been tidy, opulent and impressive. At the moment it looked like a localised whirlwind had torn through it destroying everything in its path.

Mycroft was across the room. He didn't turn to look at John but continued staring into the corner. John followed his gaze and he suddenly noticed Minerva, crouched into a ball, squeezing herself as far as possible into the walls.

John hurried over to her.

"Can you help her?" Mycroft asked. It was the first time John had heard him sound uncertain of anything.

"I don't know." John answered shortly. He was visually examining her. He noted scratches and small cuts and she was bleeding badly from a gash on her upper arm. He was mostly concerned about her shallow breathing and the fact that she was unfocussed.

"There are medical supplies on the table. There should be everything you need."

John looked and saw a large metal locker. It looked comprehensive. He turned back to Minerva.

"Minty?" He called softly to her. "Do you know who I am?"

There was no indication that she'd heard him at all.

"Can I see your arm?" He requested. At first she let him take it, but she suddenly pulled away from him in terror and distress.

"Be careful." Mycroft warned him.

John turned around. "Is her doctor here? Why is she alone? What's been given to her?" He demanded angrily.

"Her doctor was taken to hospital an hour ago; she bit his face quite badly. I doubt he'll be back. I don't think he managed to get anything into her at all."

That was frustratingly vague. John opted for ignoring Mycroft for now and concentrating on Minerva.

oOo

It was a trying and exhausting hour before John was satisfied that she was safe and calm enough for him to leave. She was sleeping deeply, partly because of the sedation that John had administered, and partly from complete emotional exhaustion. He'd stitched and bandaged her arm. Mycroft had arranged a bedroom for her and together they'd managed to get her into bed. As Mycroft shut the door his hand moved to the large and old fashioned key.

"Please don't lock her in." John requested. Mycroft gave him a look. "She'll be asleep for a while; stay with her, hire someone else to stay with her, but don't lock her in. Please."

"Will you stay?" Mycroft immediately asked. "I'm sure I can come up with a salary that will make it worth your while."

"No." John replied quickly. "No, I'm not qualified to take care of her; she needs a psychiatrist." He gave a half smile. "Besides, I'm too busy taking care of Sherlock."

Mycroft ignored this. "She trusts you."

"She needs to go back to the home. She was calm there."

"Her home was burned to the ground two hours ago."

John's eyes widened.

Mycroft gave him a long look. "Whatever my little brother needs to do, tell him to do it quickly."

John nodded and made his way back to the lift. Looking back at Mycroft he felt a moment of pity. "If she needs me tonight, I'll come back. You can call me."

Mycroft nodded and went into Minerva's room.

oOo

As soon as John was outside he called Sherlock. The call was answered quickly.

"Is she all right?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, she's fine."

"I'm at Scotland Yard." Sherlock hung up.

Jon sighed deeply and hailed a cab.

oOo

DImmock was waiting for him at the office door.

"They brought Carrol in a few minutes ago. Sherlock's in there with Lestrade." He informed him.

"Was Joanna there?"

"No."

"So what do we do now? Just wait for the others?" John was tired and frustrated.

"Well, we can watch."

Dimmock led John downstairs and took him into a darkened room. There was a viewing window through to the interview room.

Sherlock and Lestrade were sitting on the near side of the table; John found himself looking at the backs of their heads. Ben Carrol was sat opposite. An unremarkable man of medium height, medium build, and of about middle age. He was sneering at Lestrade.

"Huh, I thought these rooms only existed on TV." John whispered.

Dimmock frowned at him and flicked a switch so that they could hear what was being said.

"I won't talk without my solicitor." Carrol was saying.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. He looked bored and ever so slightly disappointed.

"We just need you to tell us where Joanna is." Lestrade told him doing a remarkable job of remaining calm.

"I don't know who you're talking about."

"Liar." Sherlock snapped quietly. John could tell that he was barely staying calm at all.

"You've already questioned me; you know I was somewhere else when my poor, dear Uncle was killed. I don't know this Joanna girl. I'm leaving now."

He got up and walked towards the door. Sherlock was up like a flash, got hold of him round the throat, and slammed him into the mirror. John and Dimmock shot backwards involuntarily. John noted that though Lestrade had risen too, he made no attempt to restrain Sherlock.

Sherlock towered over the man. He didn't appear to be using much force at all, but from where John was stood, feet away and in another room, he felt threatened. He knew he irritated Sherlock from time to time. He made a note now that he would never, ever make him properly angry. He was scared of the man he was looking at right now.

"Tell me where she is." Sherlock said slowly and quietly.

"I don't know what..."

Sherlock appeared to do something though John couldn't work out what. Carrol stopped talking and whimpered.

Lestrade still didn't intervene.

"I know you're lying." Sherlock told Carrol. "And I will find her with or without your help. It will go a lot better for you if she's found quickly and alive."

Carrol whispered something that the microphone in the room didn't pick up. Lestrade leaned in but Sherlock didn't move.

"Say that again." Lestrade commanded.

"My Uncle's house."

Sherlock released him and stormed out of the room while Carrol fell to the ground. John and Dimmock pushed out of the observation room to meet him.

"The uncle's address." Sherlock said walking straight past them. "Do you have it?"

"I'll get it." Dimmock said.

"I've got it." Lestrade called, running to catch up. "You sort him out." He said to Dimmock, gesturing back to the interrogation room.

There was a brief moment where Dimmock tried to stare down Lestrade. He was never going to be successful.

"We haven't time!" Sherlock called back down to them. "I want Lestrade."

John looked at a visibly defeated Dimmock. There wasn't time to sympathise.


	11. James Moriarty

The Six Phantoms. Chapter Eleven; James Moriarty.

The house Lestrade pulled up to was a Victorian end terrace. The rest of the street seemed bright and cheerful, lights on in windows, the usual domestic life going on as if today was a normal day. To them, John reflected, it was a normal day. He felt momentary envy towards the people who didn't know there was a little girl, trapped and terrified, on their street.

Sherlock ran forwards and kicked the front door hard twice. It didn't move.

"Dead bolted." He said by way of an explanation when Lestrade arrived.

Sherlock didn't waste his time here. He leaped and swarmed over the fence next to the house. John followed him. There was a small yard at the back with a door leading into the kitchen. This door looked significantly less substantial than the front one. Sherlock destroyed it entirely with three swift kicks.

They ran in, John hurrying on to the front door to open it from the inside.

"Have you found her?" Lestrade immediately asked. When John shook his head he pushed past him and ran upstairs calling for Joanna.

John worked through the house methodically, turning lights on as he did so. In the lounge he found her clothes. A shoe was on the floor, the rest were dumped in a pile on the sofa.

"John!" Sherlock's voice came from the kitchen and John dashed back through the house.

A door John had assumed to be a cupboard had been open and there was a narrow flight of stone stairs going down into a cellar. There was a light switch on the wall just inside, and when he flicked it the cellar lit up with a glowing red light.

"John!" Sherlock called again. He could see him at the bottom of the stairs staring at something. John raced down and past him to the glassy eyed and shaking figure of Joanna, huddled in an armchair.

"Is she all right?" Sherlock breathed.

"No." John answered shortly. "Give me your coat." He'd already shrugged off his own and had gently picked up the child and laid her on it. He took Sherlock's too and wrapped her up gently, kneeling beside her.

"We need an ambulance!" He barked at Sherlock.

Before he could get to his phone they were startled by the crashing sound of Lestrade falling heavily down the stairs.

"Lestrade?" Sherlock took a step towards the unconscious heap at the bottom of the stairs.

He stopped as another person appeared, walking slowly down towards them.

"I didn't think you'd bring all your pets!" The man said in a heavy Irish accent. "I thought it would just be me and you! Oh and the good doctor of course; you'll never go anywhere without him will you. When will you ever learn, my dear?"

Sherlock stepped forwards so he was between the foot of the stairs and John.

The newcomer reached the bottom. He stepped over Lestrade and stood in front of Sherlock. He was tall, taller than Sherlock by a good few inches. He was broad too; he looked physically strong. His blonde hair was shining under the red light.

"Who are you?" Sherlock demanded.

"Oh you know me, Sherlock." The voice drawled at him, mocking. "It's James of course. Little Jim Moriarty."

"You're not Moriarty." John said blankly, realising as he did so how stupid he sounded. He noticed a sudden look of understanding pass over Sherlock's face. At that moment Joanna started retching and John turned back to help her.

"Oh, your little doctor is quite the brain, isn't he?" Moriarty gloated.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked shortly. "You're not interested in the girl."

"No, not my thing really. I was happy to let Mr Carrol take care of that side of the business. He did a good job too, even stopping the Met when they started poking their nose in. Killing all the others too like a copycat, that was his idea. I thought it was brilliant until he got silly and wanted rid of the old man too. I'd had high hopes for him until then. Then he suddenly took a shine to one of his little girls. I don't understand it myself; one snivelling brat's the same as all the others. Don't you agree?"

If Sherlock agreed, he kept it to himself.

"Well, I can't stand around here forever." Moriarty said. "I only turned up because I knew you'd be here. You just wouldn't take a warning, would you? So just let me kill you here, Sherlock, you and your little pets, and I'll be on my way."

There was the click of a trigger being cocked. John looked around wildly. Before he could even formulate a plan Sherlock had lurched fluidly forwards and with an almighty blow sent the weapon flying across the room and Moriarty backwards into the thin wooden banister. John gently kicked the gun under the armchair.

"I didn't think disarming you would be that easy." Sherlock muttered.

"Oh, you haven't disarmed me." Moriarty swiftly struck Sherlock hard on the side of his head. Sherlock stepped backwards but didn't lose his balance. John lent forwards over Joanna trying to protect her from any passing blows from the fight going on behind him. She was looking confused but more aware than she had been. She was gripping John's hand hard, shivering and occasionally retching and throwing up. John stayed crouched over her and stroked her hair.

"It's OK." He whispered to her gently. "We're going to get you out." He hoped it wouldn't turn out to be a lie.

Behind him he heard Sherlock yelp in pain and he glanced behind him. Sherlock was on the floor, crashed against the stairs.

Moriarty stood over him, breathless. "I didn't think you'd last so long, Mr Holmes." He told him. "You're strong!" He sounded delighted.

Sherlock kicked out at him but Moriarty danced a step backwards out of reach. "Oh I don't think so!" He laughed. A second later the sound of a shot cut through his laughter and he dropped to his knees.

Without releasing Joanna's hand, John had reached under the chair for the forgotten gun and had shot Moriarty through the back of his left knee.

Pale and groaning in agony the man rocked and writhed in pain. He turned savage eyes towards John.

"I will kill you, John Watson. I will destroy your life and then I will kill you!"

Sherlock was up and over to him in an instant, pushing him to the ground and pinning his arms behind him.

"I'd like to see you try!" He snarled in his ear.


	12. Epilogue

The six phantoms. Epilogue

"Inspector Lestrade? Sherlock?" Dimmock's voice cut through to them just before the man himself cane down the stairs. He saw Lestrade just beginning to regain consciousness and he hurried towards him without even taking in the rest of the room.

"We need an ambulance." John told him. "Two, actually."

He sat down, exhausted against the wall and pulled Joanna onto his lap. She was sobbing and clinging to him. He held her closely, rocking her slightly. He noticed Sherlock pinning Moriarty down and holding him tightly while the big man continued to writhe.

"You could have just killed him!" Sherlock said, annoyed.

"Oh, someone will be along soon to take him away. Stop complaining!" John told him with a smile, feeling relief flood into him. There were already uniformed police pouring down the stairs ready to relieve take over.

"He would have killed me!" Sherlock whined walking over to where John was and sinking down beside him.

"There will be another one won't there?" John asked him quietly.

Sherlock nodded. "But maybe this one can give us some info on the others. I'm not hopeful, but it's possible."

They sat for a moment, quiet and thoughtful while the room became busy and noisy around them.

"Is Minerva OK?" Sherlock asked John suddenly.

"Yes. She can't stay there for long though. She's ruined Mycroft's living room."

"Good."

"Did a better job of it than you did."

Sherlock smirked. He glanced at Joanna. "Will she be OK?" His concern was genuine.

"Yes" said John, continuing to rock her. "She'll be fine. I know she's strong and children are resilient. She'll be fine." His voice was firm as if by his determination alone she would get well. His eyes betrayed the lie though. He knew it, so he looked away.

The ambulance crew arrived and John carried Joanna out to the clean, bright ambulance. She shivered in the cold evening air. John wrapped her in a soft orange blanket and handed over to the ambulance crew. Slowly calming down she eventually let go of John. He climbed down onto the street where he was immediately needed to help Sherlock force Lestrade into the second ambulance.

"You are concussed!" He shouted at him. "Dimmock can handle this now!" Lestrade winced but capitulated.

As they watched the ambulances leave John turned to Sherlock. "Walk for a bit?" he requested. "I need some air."

Sherlock nodded. John threw his coat to him.

"What's happened to this?" Sherlock was outraged.

"It'll clean." John said sternly.

They walked for a while.

"Do you want children, John?"

"What?" John wasn't expecting the question at all. "Er, maybe. Yes I think so. If I found the right person."

"Hm."

"Hm?"

"Maybe that's why you spend so much of your time looking for the right genetic match."

John stared at him, then nodded. "Yes, yes that's it, Sherlock. That's why I date many, many women. I'm looking for the right genetic match."

They were silent for a while.

"What about you?" John asked though the image of Sherlock as a father wasn't one he could bring easily to mind.

"God no. I could think of few things worse than parenthood."

"You wouldn't be bored."

Sherlock frowned. "What do you mean?"

John smiled. "Well, most parents say that their children are interesting. There's always something new."

Sherlock considered this for a while.

"Most parents are stupid." He concluded an internal thought process aloud.

John smiled again.

Sherlock continued. "I think you'd probably make a good father, John." John glanced up at him, surprised. "You seem to have all the important attributes anyway."

"Thank you."

"Hm. I'm not sure I meant it as a compliment."

John snorted. "Let's get a cab."

"Yes, let's do that."

**That's it! I'm done. Sorry; this one got a lot darker than I'd imagined. If I write more, I'm going to try to keep it more funny and fluffy.**

**Thanks so much to everyone who stuck in there to the end! Thanks especially to Bartimus Crotchety, Saturn-Jupiter and Umi-Ungalad for all their encouragement.**

**Oh yes - disclaimer; I don't own these characters.  
**


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